


i believe in yesterday

by a_nybodys



Series: this is dedicated to the one i love [3]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: 1960s, 1970s, A box of polaroids, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nybodys/pseuds/a_nybodys
Summary: A box of snapshots that could've been.
Relationships: Dave/Klaus Hargreeves
Series: this is dedicated to the one i love [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692919
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	i believe in yesterday

A pile of photographs, old polaroids that have clearly seen years of holding, of loving, of hands running up and down and fiddling with corners. They’re yellow with age, and some have clearly been used as coasters, rings acting as halos to the people in the photos. They’re in a shoebox, the cardboard picked to hell and falling apart, more duct tape than box at this point, and that shoebox is shoved under a bed, not far enough back that they can’t be fetched in a nostalgic hurry.

The bottom one, older than some of the others, is candid. The figure, blurry, was laughing. The room was yellow and drawings and sketches littered the painted walls. The figure, reaching a tattooed hand towards the camera as if to push it out of the hands of the photographer, though gaunt, was happy. He wore some little cropped striped shirt, and pants tight enough to hurt, and his hair was short, yet curling gently around his face and into his eyes like it had been freshly washed. In the background, a small kitchenette, appliances the soft baby teal of bygone eras, and the sink is piled with dishes. A record player is seen, almost out of frame, and a Beatles record spins on the spindle. In dark ink, scrawled messily at the bottom as if in afterthought is the year, _1968_.

The next, overlapping the other and nearly hidden by the next, is of someone’s arms. They are muscled, and the hands calloused, but dwarfed by these rough hands is what is held in them. It is a puppy, some small mutt with spots and one ear that stuck straight up. It’s tongue was out, and in the process of licking the arm hair of the man holding it. The man is in blue, a button-up shirt with a pocket nearly covered by the puppy. One of the hands is scratching behind the dog’s stick-uppy ear. The writing at the bottom is neater, and done in purple marker, _Effie, 1969_.

A quick shot of two men’s faces, and the man with the messy hair is seen firmly kissing the cheek of the owner of the arms. They are both bruised, blood has crusted under the messy man’s nose and the man in blue has a split lip. _After Stonewall, 1969_ , in red.

On top of the previous is a blurrier picture, clearly taken in the moment and in a rush. Seen is a black-and-white television set, bunny ears and all, and a man crouches in front pointing excitedly at the grainy image of a man planting a flag in moon dirt. The man grins, eyes wild, and is wearing a pair of blue striped pajama bottoms and no shirt. The light is warm and yellow and just at the edge of the frame is an arm, caught in the photo by accident, and on the arm is the sleeve of a matching blue striped pajama shirt. The nails on the unseen arm are painted black and chipping severely. A small dog, infected with the excitement, is propped against the kneeling man’s leg, and her tongue is halfway out of her mouth. _the moon landing, whoda thunk?_ Is written in the messy black ink of before, and written neater next to it, in blue this time, is the year, _1969_.

The next photo is two men, laying on the hood of a car, out of date compared to the others surrounding it. One is propped against the windshield, one knee up and the other sprawled across the other man’s shoulder. He is barefoot, and his toenails match his fingernails, and he holds a lit cigarette, smoke curling from his nose. He looked off to the side, eyes squinted against the sun and lined in dark khol. His hair hung, longer than the first photo, in ringlets against the sides of his face. He is wearing a suit vest, buttoned, but no shirt underneath, and wide-legged striped pants. Despite the bright sun, a scarf hangs limply across his shoulders. The other man lays sideways across the hood, in a simple button down, arrow-pointed collar stood on end, and tight jeans fastened with a thick belt, buckle big and gaudy. He was uncaring of the leg draped across his chest, eyes closed and mouth curved into a gentle smile. Around them, a crowd of people, all walking towards something in the opposite direction. The messy hand that favored darker ink had scrawled _woodstock 1969_ across the bottom of the photo, and, also in dark marker, someone had drawn little flowers.

Another shot of the apartment, this time in a bedroom lined with white string lights. The man in blue lays on the bed, asleep, and on his chest is curled a giant cat that is ninety percent grey hair. The dog, as big as a fully grown spaniel now, is curled in between the man’s legs. The bed is stacked high with pillows, varying in size and color and pattern, and the blankets match only in variety. A window in the back is open, and gauzy curtains float as if blown by a gust of wind, and, though dark, is lit brightly with city lights and cars. _augustus loves his daddy 1970_ sprawls along the bottom, black marker going over the ink of the photo slightly, and hearts are drawn messily around the writing, as well as around the head of the sleeping man.

A record store, the man with the painted nails leans behind the counter, not looking at the camera, and seemingly unaware he is even being photographed. His chin is in his hand and a cigarette is perched between his fingers, smoke trailing up in curlicues around his head. His hair is chin-length and curlier than the wild smoke trail. He is wearing a name tag, pinned to the fringed vest worn over nothing, his blue striped pants disappearing under the counter. The next photo seems to have been taken in sequential order, and the man has noticed the photographer. His eyes are wide and he reaches towards the camera, hands showing a greeting and a farewell, and his mouth almost curls into a smile. It is considerably blurrier than the last, and tilted as if the camera had been knocked from someone’s hand. _Klaus, working hard, 1970_ had been written in yellow, and then written over in pink, as the yellow barely showed on the manila colored photo paper. Next to it, in a dark maroon color had been scrawled _or hardly workin?_ And a cartoon of a kissy face had been drawn and half-heartedly crossed out by the same hand.

A man, naked, and seen from above. He is blushing down his chest, and his hand comes up to cover his face. His chest is bracketed by two naked legs, and a hand is holding the body attached to those legs up on the same chest. The nails are messily repainted black, and they dig slightly into the meat of the man’s pectoral. _daveys real confident until the camera comes out, 1970._ A small winky face is scrawled next to the text.

A side profile, rimlit in a bright neon blue. His hair is pulled into a ponytail, though messily like everything he does, and strands hang in his face. His eyes, lined darkly, are closed and his lips, painted with black lipstick, are open, smiling and in the middle of singing along. A crowd presses in on all sides, though the man seems to be too lost in the music to notice. Klaus, _Elliot John concert, 1970_. It’s written in a royal blue and, underneath it, _you know damn well its elton john, dave_.

The one at the top is simple, merely two hands, grasping the other in a vice-like grip. On each hand is a ring. The smaller hand, the one who’s black nail polish is nearly gone and the nail beds a wreck, displays a dainty little thing, gold and delicate, and the gem in the middle was hexagonal. The other hand had a thicker band, silver, and on the outside, in a familiar messy scrawl, was engraved the words ‘dedicated to the one i love’. _1971_ was the only thing written on the bottom, but it had been smeared with what looked like tears. It was the most thumbed over picture in the box, edges frayed to hell and back.

The box is filled, bursting with little moments and memories, and, even if a dog had gotten into it at one point, or nail polish had mysteriously spilled on a stack, they were loved, nearly as loved as the men in the photos. The box sits, under a bed, in a small apartment in San Francisco, and the apartment’s windows are always open, letting in the sounds of traffic, and letting out a overwhelming feeling of joy.

**Author's Note:**

> wow, yet another dave and klaus fic, who wouldve guessed. thanks for reading!


End file.
